


What Friends Do

by Cousin Shelley (CousinShelley)



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Bloodplay, Fandom Stocking 2013, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinShelley/pseuds/Cousin%20Shelley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter has a problem, and Roman insists on lending a helping hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Friends Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sksdwrld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sksdwrld/gifts).



> Happy 2014!

Peter came out of the school frowning and looking around as if searching for something or someone. Roman hoped Peter was looking for him. “Want a ride home?”

“Sure.” Peter smiled as he always did when riding with Roman. Roman had never said as much, but he’d be willing to drive Peter anywhere he wanted to go just to see his face light up at how much he loved Roman’s car. Peter was quiet, though, and had been tense over the last few days. It bothered Roman that he didn’t know why.

“Everything okay at home?” he asked, feeling strange that he was the one asking that question, given the tension in his own house.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?” Peter’s smile faded.

“No reason, man. No reason.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. When Peter didn’t stop staring at him, he said, “I know something’s up. Just tell me.”

Peter dropped his head back against the seat and sighed. “It’s nothing, really.”

“For fuck’s sake, Peter, just tell me. I wanna know.”

“We’re just having some money problems right now, that’s all. Rough patch. They come, they pass.” He shrugged. “Nothing to worry about.”

Roman nodded. “Peter, I know this may come as a shock to you, a complete and total god damn surprise, but I have a lot of money. Why didn’t you say something? I can give you whatever you need.”

“Because that’s not what friends do. They don’t ask for money they may never be able to pay back.”

“Well, we can be the kind of friends that don’t give a shit about that. And who said anything about paying back?”

“Roman.” Peter rubbed his hand over his forehead. “You can’t just give me money. I . . . that wouldn’t feel right.” He turned in the seat and waved his hand around as he spoke. “Don’t you, being as wealthy as you are, have some sort of thing, a problem, with people coming to you for money? Isn’t that what rich people in movies always carry on about? Worrying that people will love them only for what they can give them?”

Roman laughed. “That what you’re gonna do? Love me for my money?” He elbowed Peter, who laughed in return. “Peter, the fact that you didn’t ask is a pretty clear indication you’re not out to use me. I’m _offering_.”

“Thank you.” Peter held both hands out in a gesture of thanks and bowed his head dramatically. “I do appreciate it. But I don’t borrow money I can’t pay back. If we weren't friends, I'd sooner lift your wallet than ask for a loan anyway," he said, grinning. "But we're friends, and that changes things. No loan."

“Not a loan.”

“Roman, I told you. You can’t--I don’t take charity.”

“It’s not _charity_. Okay, then I’ll pay you for . . . a service of some kind. I scratch your back, you scratch mine?” Roman licked his lips and white-knuckled the steering wheel as an idea occurred to him. "Honest work for honest pay."

“You want me to come clean your house or cut your grass or something?”

“Something like that.”

***

Roman trembled with anticipation when Peter followed him into his house. Peter looked around and shook himself, shrugging his shoulders. “Your mom will not be happy to see me.”

“She’s at the Institute all afternoon. Meetings.”

“Small favors.”

Roman led Peter to his bedroom and plopped down on the bed with a groan. “School,” he said. “Always best when it’s over.”

Peter sat on the bed, bending one knee up to turn and face Roman. “So . . . what is it you’re going to pay me to do. Scrub your tub? Fluff your pillows?” Peter laughed, but he looked nervous. He looked like he had some idea what Roman might say, and wasn’t sure about it.

Roman wasn’t sure either. Maybe this was too much. Maybe the thing between them, the thing that had been there from the first time Roman saw Peter, the feeling that had flared up when he’d confronted Peter near the first murder scene, maybe that was something only Roman felt and wanted to take advantage of.

But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was there, pulsing and growing between them all this time, and this one little gesture would finally make them able to act on it.

“I want you to . . . entertain me. For a couple of hours or so. We’ll do the same thing we might do in my bedroom for a couple of hours if we were here under different circumstances. But this way, I can give you the money you need and you won’t feel like--”

“Oh, god _damn_ ,” Peter said, standing up. “You want me to fuck you for money.”

“Why do you have to say it like that? It’s not the same thing.”

“No? Okay, Roman. Tell me the difference between someone you pick up on the street and pay to fuck you and me who you brought home from school to pay to fuck you? How exactly is it different?” Peter paced and talked with his hands, running his fingers through his hair.

“It’s different because we know each other. We _like_ each other. And because it’s a good way for you to feel better about taking the money.” Roman stood now, stepping close and letting himself tower over Peter a little.

“Prostituting myself is supposed to make me feel good about taking the money?”

“It’s supposed to make you feel like you’re not taking god damn charity.” _And it’s supposed to make you feel other things, too._ “How badly do you need the money?”

“We might have to move. Maybe stay with family.”

“Then this is for me, too. I don’t want you to move. I like you _here_.” Roman cupped the back of Peter’s neck and squeezed. “Unless you can’t stand the thought of, you know, being with  _me_ . . . then you’ll feel like you did something for the money, I get to keep you here, and . . . we’ll both enjoy it, too. Win-win.”

Peter shook his head, but when he looked into Roman’s eyes, he laughed. “You have the most fucked up idea of what’s appropriate. I swear to god, Roman.”

Roman moved closer. “And you’re the one who didn’t storm out when I suggested it.” They were both smiling when their lips met. The kiss was hungry, aggressive, and all too soon Roman wanted to pull at Peter’s clothes and have him naked and ready for him. He did want that, but he wanted other things, too. So he pulled back, licked his lips, and said, “Can I watch you undress?”

***

Peter had often wondered exactly what it was that drew him to Roman Godfrey. Not only was Roman arrogant and entitled, he was a god damn _upir_. Not someone it’s wise to be friends with. But from the moment they’d looked at each other, Peter had felt a connection.

Even now, with Roman suggesting that sex in exchange for money would make Peter feel better about things . . . it was clear he had the attitude of someone who’d only ever considered one side of the exchange. A spoiled boy who couldn’t even see things from any position but a terribly privileged one. So very different from Peter and his life.

He should have stormed out and walked home. He should have. He hadn’t, and he still didn’t want to. And it wasn’t the prospect of the walk that kept him from it.

He’d imagined that kiss so many times. It was as good as he’d imagined, except it was over far too soon. _Can I watch you undress?_

Peter nodded and pulled his T-shirt off, then kicked his shoes away as he unbuttoned his pants. Roman lay on the bed, leaning up on his elbow, watching intently. After Peter stripped, he waited to see if Roman was going to do the same. Instead, Roman patted the bed and scooted over to give Peter plenty of room.

Roman pushed a few pillows in place so that Peter was reclined but not flat, and kept his eyes roaming up and down Peter’s body while he climbed onto the bed.

“Aren’t you going to undress?”

“In a bit. I . . . just want to look at you first.”

Peter lay back and put one hand behind his head, trying to act casual. He’d been naked in front of Roman before, when he’d watched Peter turn. But he _felt_ more naked now than ever. When a couple of minutes had passed without Roman saying or doing anything, Peter had to break the tension.

“You’re staring. It’s strange.” And the way Roman looked at him now _was_ different. It had an edge to it. Roman always looked at him like he was a little hungry. It was true, this had been brewing for a while (though not for money, Jesus Christ, Roman). But now he looked curious and needy in a way Peter wasn’t used to, but that he could get used to very quickly.

Peter shifted a little when Roman kept looking at him hungrily with those wide, light eyes. “Roman, what big eyes you have.” One corner of his mouth turned up.

“That’s supposed to be my line, isn’t it?” Roman leaned in and put his mouth on Peter’s chest, kissing and sucking at the nipple. His hand slid down Peter’s stomach to cup him where he’d grown half-hard under Roman’s gaze. Peter arched his back and tilted his hips up.

Roman groaned and hopped off the bed to strip. Peter watched, admiring how Roman moved, his tall and lanky body possessing a certain grace Peter hadn't expected. He could look awkward or bony or somehow gawkish, but he didn’t. He moved with a fluid power that made Peter harden even more.

Roman stood next to the bed looking down at him with that same starving stare.

Peter smiled up at him. “Draw me like one of your French girls.”

Roman laughed and put his hand on Peter’s chest, making both of them tense up a little in anticipation. “Except we’re not on a sinking ship, are we?”

Peter shook his head. “Hope not.”

Roman straddled Peter’s thighs and reached into the nightstand drawer. He pulled out a straight razor and lay it flat against Peter’s chest. Peter should have been scared. Had it been anybody else, he’d have at least been concerned. But he knew instinctively Roman wouldn’t hurt him.

“I wonder, if I sliced you open right now, would there be fur underneath?” Roman slid the flat of the blade down Peter’s chest and back up. “All that strength, that animal power, right under here . . . .” He kissed Peter’s chest, lapping wetly at the skin. “I can’t draw, but I can paint.” Roman drew the blade across his own chest, an angled line over his heart.

“Hey!” Peter sat up and grabbed at Roman’s hand to stop him, but he’d already made the cut. Blood ran in thin lines down Roman's chest. “ _Jesus_ , Roman.”

“It’s okay,” Roman said, tossing the blade away and swiping his finger through the mess. He pushed Peter’s shoulder until he lay on his back again, and scooted down his thighs a little more. Roman trailed his bloody fingertip in a circle around Peter’s navel, dipped it in, then licked the skin clean.

“ _Oh_ , god,” Peter gasped, when Roman’s tongue pressed into his navel. Despite his shock at Roman cutting himself, he’d stayed fully hard, throbbing in anticipation of what Roman might do.

Roman drew circles, squares, line after line in his own blood on Peter’s body, and chased the paths he’d made with his tongue, until finally he wiped his hand across his chest and gripped Peter, stroking him and painting his skin red.

Peter’s hands were fisted in the covers when Roman lowered his mouth to Peter’s cock and cleaned away the mess he’d made. He sucked and stroked, smearing his hand over his chest and gripping him again, turning his lips and chin red then pink. Peter arched and cried out, coming hard while held firmly in Roman’s mouth, with Roman as eager to taste that as his own blood.

As soon as Peter was spent, Roman slid forward to straddle his hips and stroked himself, his jaw clenched and his brow furrowed in concentration. Peter pushed up onto his elbows and reached for him, but Roman grabbed his hand and held it away from him, never breaking his rhythm.

“I can do it,” Peter said. “I can do _something_.” He watched Roman’s face, the way his eyes took Peter in, the way his hand moved. “I want to.”  And he did. _God_ , he did.

Roman’s sentence was broken with heavy breathing. “What I want most--right now--you won’t--don’t have to.”

“ _What_?”

Roman let go of Peter’s hand and dragged a fingertip across the line on his chest. He held it out, an eyebrow up. "This'd be good enough . . . ." 

Peter looked at it for what felt like too long--did he really want to do this? He wouldn’t, couldn’t, with anyone else. Peter brought Roman’s hand to his mouth. He parted his lips and nodded.

With a moan, Roman dotted Peter’s lower lip with blood. Peter kissed him, twining their tongues together, the taste of Roman’s blood more exciting than he could have imagined. Roman pumped himself harder and faster as they kissed. And Peter realized that Roman hadn’t even bothered to say what he'd truly wanted most, though now Peter could guess. Roman probably still thought Peter wouldn’t do it. 

The thing was, he _would_.

He put his hands on Roman’s upper back for balance, pulling himself closer. With a last look into those big eyes that now made Roman look absolutely _wrecked_ and on the verge of crying or begging or screaming, Peter leaned in and pressed his lips against the cut on Roman’s chest. He licked at the line in Roman’s flesh, then closed his lips over the spot and sucked.

Roman shouted, his body arching forward in a quick snap. His hand stilled, then he shouted again as he came. Peter had to fight to keep his mouth on Roman's chest as he bucked and arched, giving himself over to the pleasure completely. Peter licked and lapped at the skin in the same way Roman had used his mouth and tongue on Peter.

Roman’s fingers threaded through Peter’s hair, gently tugging and stroking as he continued to lick Roman’s chest. When Roman was sated, he pushed Peter back down. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Neither did I,” Peter admitted.

“But you liked it?” Roman slid his fingertip through the come on Peter’s chest. He offered it, another questioning look on his face.

Peter didn’t hesitate this time before licking it, then sucking the finger into his mouth to clean it. “I did,” he breathed.

“Hey, maybe you should be paying me, then?”

Peter pulled one of the pillows from beneath his head and hit Roman so hard he tumbled off the bed. Roman was still laughing when he climbed back up. He lay next to Peter and wiped at both their chests with a tissue, then surprised Peter by pressing close and kissing him. It was softer this time, slower, but no less intense.

“You’re staying, right? At least a little while longer?”

Peter ran his fingertip down the line of Roman’s jaw. “If you’ve got the money, honey, I’ve got the time,” he teased.

“As we’ve already established, I’ve got a lot of money.”

“What am I going to tell my mother?”

“You mean you can’t just tell her I’m paying you for sex? She might find the honesty refreshing.” Roman chuckled. “My mother, she probably wouldn’t bat an eye.” Roman laughed harder. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to tell her.”

Peter let out the breath he’d held in horror at the idea Olivia Godfrey might be told. He shuddered at the thought. “My mother would wonder whether I’ve lost my mind.” _Sex and blood sharing with an upir, for Christ’s sake. She’d be right to think it._

“So, you tell her something else. Tell her I’m paying you to tutor me.”

Peter cocked his head and frowned. “ _Right_.”

“Okay, tell her I’m paying you to help me with . . . an art project. You’re sitting for a painting.” Roman pressed his finger against the wound on his chest, opening it again and sending fresh blood trickling down. He caught some with his fingertip and brushed it over Peter’s bottom lip. “Tell her I insist on paying you, because you’re helping me so much.”

Peter flicked his tongue out to taste copper with a hint of sweetness, and felt a tingle in his lower stomach.

“That’s what friends do,” Roman whispered, before his mouth covered Peter’s again.


End file.
